PART III —­ IN THE SHADOW

CHAPTER I—­THE SKIRMISH

He is upon an infinite meadow, green with the soft
velvet carpet of spring. The sky is gray, lowering,
as if to weigh upon one’s very shoulders.

They are six sailors reconnoitring among the fresh
rice-fields, in a muddy pathway.

Hist! again the whizz, breaking the silence of the
air—­a shrill, continuous sound, a kind
of prolonged zing, giving one a strong impression
that the pellets buzzing by might have stung fatally.

For the first time in his life Sylvestre hears that
music. The bullets coming towards a man have
a different sound from those fired by himself:
the far-off report is attenuated, or not heard at all,
so it is easier to distinguish the sharp rush of metal
as it swiftly passes by, almost grazing one’s
ears.

Crack! whizz! ping! again and yet again! The
balls fall in regular showers now. Close by the
sailors they stop short, and are buried in the flooded
soil of the rice-fields, accompanied by a faint splash,
like hail falling sharp and swift in a puddle of water.

The marines looked at one another as if it was all
a piece of odd fun, and said:

“Only John Chinaman! pish!”

To the sailors, Annamites, Tonquinese, or “Black
Flags” are all of the same Chinese family.
It is difficult to show their contempt and mocking
rancour, as well as eagerness for “bowling over
the beggars,” when they speak of “the
Chinese.”

Two or three bullets are still flying about, more
closely grazing; they can be seen bouncing like grasshoppers
in the green. The slight shower of lead did not
last long.

Perfect silence returns to the broad verdant plain,
and nowhere can anything be seen moving. The
same six are still there, standing on the watch, scenting
the breeze, and trying to discover whence the volley
came. Surely from over yonder, by that clump of
bamboos, which looks like an island of feathers in
the plain; behind it several pointed roofs appear
half hidden. So they all made for it, their feet
slipping or sinking into the soaked soil. Sylvestre
runs foremost, on his longer, more nimble legs.

No more buzz of bullets; they might have thought they
were dreaming.

As in all the countries of the world, some features
are the same; the cloudy gray skies and the fresh
tints of fields in spring-time, for example; one could
imagine this upon French meadows, and these young
fellows, running merrily over them, playing a very
different sport from this game of death.

But as they approach, the bamboos show the exotic
delicacy of their foliage, and the village roofs grow
sharper in the singularity of their curves, and yellow
men hidden behind advance to reconnoitre; their flat
faces are contracted by fear and spitefulness.
Then suddenly they rush out screaming, and deploy
into a long line, trembling, but decided and dangerous.